In the days before I had my driver's license, I used to think Boston was a small, boring city.
My mind was full of tender yearnings for New York, or Chicago, or LA. Or Shanghai, or Hong Kong, or Beijing. Or London. Or Paris. Or Venice.. --Wait a minute, it still is! Nevermind.
Regardless, after one full year, I am finally synching to the rhythm of this city. Despite a truly moronic memory for geography, I now know a few secret parking spaces, as well as some hole-in-the-wall restaurants.
I have walked the banks of the Charles.
I have hanged in a reasonable number of hip places, and saw the trannie show at Jacques, and played pool at Felt, and partook of the desserts at Finale's.
I have window-shopped in Copley. I have spent slow afternoons, flipping through magazines at Borders Downtown, then ransacked the inventory of So Good Jewelry. I have breakfasted mid-Sunday morning on Newberry. I have dined post-clubbing in Chinatown, at 3AM.
I am conversant with the T. I can navigate Storrow Drive.
I am finally starting to feel like a Bostonian--or at least, no longer a stranger. But now, I must pack up and start the show anew, all over again. This is heartbreaking. Just a little.
On a brighter note: I have never taken the duck-tour, which according to some (drifters themselves from other cities), is the one activity that makes for a true Bostonian. That, and become a die-hard Red Sox fan.
Maybe I should put that on my to-do list, before I leave. Or maybe I am just deluding myself that I'll actually finish packing before the day I leave, and have the time for such irrelevance!
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